It just gets better and better, thought Gloria as she picked up the phone. “Gloria Hanes speaking.”
“Gloria, hi. It’s Donna Mallory.”
She feigned surprise. “Hi, Donna. I loved your spot on Kelli’s show. We can’t thank you enough.”
“Just glad I was able to tell my story. Listen, I’m heading to the airport but wanted to confirm we’re meeting tonight.”
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world. I’ll pick you up at Logan International at—”
“Six o’clock.”
“Great. We’ll go to Mother Anna’s in the North End. Their Chicken Marsala is to die for.” She expected a cheer of approval but Donna didn’t respond. After too long a silence, Gloria said, “You still there? Did we get cut off?”
“I’m here. Listen, um —after Kelli’s show aired, a couple of women contacted me and—”
“That’s wonderful!”
“—through my publicist. The two ladies, they didn’t know each other, and they were from different parts of the world, but what they said—”
“What?” Something in Donna’s voice set off fear in Gloria.
“You told me that my particular experience was too much like yours to be a coincidence.”
“Sure, but—”
“I went through the same nightmare as you: The denial, the anger, the stint in the mental ward . . . but eventually I accepted the grief of losing my child. Learned to let it go, move on. Like you did.”
Gloria wondered where Donna was headed with this train of thought. Yes, Gloria had finally let it go. Had conceded that her miscarriage was a natural occurrence, a tragedy, but no one’s fault. Acceptance had brought her peace and she couldn’t bear to lose that.
Donna continued. “You know, let’s just wait till dinner. Now I’m getting paranoid.”
A chill went up Gloria’s spine. “Why?”
“Just pick me up at the airport. I’ll explain it then. Six o’clock at arrivals for Delta Shuttle.”
“But—” A dial tone buzzed in Gloria’s ear. She hung up but missed the cradle. On the second try, success.
Gloria assured herself that whatever Donna planned to tell her, it would make no difference. Nothing would. It’s what the doctors drilled into Gloria’s head six years ago at Butterfield Psychiatric. Whatever she thought she felt that day right before Dr. Boucher put her under anesthesia, the reality was that she—like millions of mothers across the globe—had lost her baby.
Slowly but surely, Gloria had moved on, continuing forward in a new life. After her breakdown, Tommy Carpenter had divorced her, relocating to Miami. Gloria had then returned to her hometown of Bradfield, Massachusetts, where she landed a wonderful job at O’Neill and Rogers, a small but prestigious publishing company in Beacon Hill, an hour’s commute from her cozy brick townhouse in the northern part of the state. Truth be told, she enjoyed the train ride. More time to read.
She held the job of senior editor here and had envisioned the When Baby Doesn’t Make It anthology to help not only her, but other woman as well. She was in awe of how many broken-hearted parents relayed such remarkable stories of personal strength. Reading the essays, even the ones that didn’t make the cut, had invigorated Gloria, had bolstered her spirits. She could not have imagined that a book would revive her, help her to finally let go.
Based on the sales of the book, it yielded the same positive results in its readers. She had made a difference in so many lives.
“Gloria, got a minute?” It was her boss, Brian Rogers, one of the two co-founders of the firm. “We’re having a surprise birthday party for Charlene in the conference room.”
She got up from her desk and followed Brian, careful not to make any noise, lest Charlene lurked in the hallway. Didn’t want to ruin her—
“Surprise!” Everyone in the conference room shouted to Gloria when she opened the door. She looked over her shoulder but Charlene wasn’t behind her. They were cheering not for Charlene but for her.
She blushed and smiled. “It’s not my birthday but I’d love the cake anyway.”
Brian put his arm around her. He reminded her of Philip Seymour Hoffman. “We know it’s not your birthday, Gloria. We set you up.”
“For what?” Her face ached from smiling.
“Because of your work on When Baby Doesn’t Make It, you’ve received—” he reached over to a chair and pulled up a wooden and brass plaque— “The Massie Award.”
He handed it to her, and the full staff of fifteen people clapped. After she silently read aloud the words carved into the brass, tears of pride overflowed.
To Gloria Hanes, A true humanitarian, for your outstanding work in making the world a better place.
Gloria wiped her eyes. “Wow. I don’t what to say except I want to thank all of you. This book couldn’t have become a reality if not for you.”
A loud pop and then a fizz added to the sounds of excited chatter that filled the large paneled room. “I’d like to make a speech,” Brian announced.
Jenny, the accountant, quickly poured champagne into paper coffee cups. After everyone had been served, Brian spoke. “It’s just like you to want to share the praise but this project was your baby. No pun intended. I think most of us were here when you started about six years ago.”
Her co-workers nodded and Brian continued. “As I recall, you came in to interview and told me you had been chewed up and spit out and were ready to start a new life.”
Everyone laughed.
“To be honest, I was leery about hiring you. But with your resume I couldn’t refuse. You didn’t seem downtrodden to me. Even then, you were strong. Wounded but tough. Tall, blond, and hell bent on proving yourself. Over the years, you’ve transformed so many careers. You’ve put this firm on the map. The writers love you, the booksellers love you, and hell,” he blushed, “we love you, Gloria. In fact, Stephen and I are damn proud to have you and want to offer you a partnership.”
“A partnership?” Gloria thought she would explode with joy. Her co-workers clapped.
Stephen O’Neill, surely the long-lost brother of actor Liam Neeson, held up his cup. “A toast to O’Neill, Rogers, and Hanes, LLP.”
“What do you say, Gloria? Partners?” Brian asked.
She wiped her eyes and brown mascara smeared the tissue. “I must look like a raccoon. To O’Neill, Rogers, and Hanes, LLP.” She drank the first sip of champagne and everyone cheered.
A dream come true, she thought. Making partner and being loved by such a wonderful group of people. She felt like George Bailey at the end of It’s a Wonderful Life and half-expected to hear a bell ring.
Instead it was her cell phone. She pulled it from the pocket of her corduroy blazer and saw a number she didn’t recognize. “I should get this, Brian. Be right back.”
“We’ll cut the cake.” He held up a knife.
She nodded, turned and walked from the noisy room toward her office. “Hello?”
“Is this Gloria Hanes?”
“Yes.”
“This is Doctor Michael Woodrow from Boston General.”
“Oh my God, is someone hurt? Is it my mother or father?”
“No nothing like that. Three years ago, you went to a marrow drive for someone in the Boston area. Your marrow wasn’t a match for that person but your DNA, as you know, was recorded and stored in a database.”
“And?”
“Preliminary checks show that you are a close match to a patient, someone who doesn’t have much time left. A child.”
Gloria felt her face flush. “Do you want me to come in?”
“Yes. As soon as possible. I know your schedule may make it impossible—”
“If it’s a matter of my saving the life of a child, then that’s all that matters. Just tell me where I need to go.”
“Well, we have to run some tests to be sure the marrow is a true match and that you’re healthy. Are you still located in Bradfield?”
“Yes, but I’m in Boston at work now. I could com
e right over.”
“We don’t require such a rush but certainly the sooner you get here the sooner we could—theoretically speaking—do the transplant. I’m sure the parents would be grateful, not to mention the little girl.”
Gloria closed her eyes. “A girl?”
“A five-year-old girl. I can’t give you details about her because of privacy laws but she is a remarkable child.”
Saving another child’s life wouldn’t bring her own unborn daughter back but it might help balance the scales.
Gloria obtained the contact name and floor at the hospital and hung up. She walked back into the conference room where she told her co-workers about the call. She asked everyone to keep fingers crossed that her marrow would be compatible and would save the child.
Brian spoke first. “You know, surgery is involved with a marrow transplant. It’s not like donating blood.” She rubbed her arm. Track marks littered her sleeve-covered arm from the bi-monthly donations at the Red Cross. Each of those pints had the potential to help someone but her marrow could single-handedly give the little girl a new chance at life.
“And your point is?” she asked, smirking.
“That the quote on this plaque is dead on, Gloria.”
Charlene added. “You are a true humanitarian.”
Stephen shouted, “Go on, go to the hospital. We’ll formalize your partnership later.”
Gloria nodded, backing from the room and thanking everyone again. In her office, she put on her long wool winter coat and left the building, her mind racing, wondering what this anonymous child looked like.
2.
Maison D’Espoir, Haiti, late morning
Martine Jean-Baptiste clenched her fists tight as Dr. Tad Boucher ran the wand over her big tummy. “Souplé, fe pitit mwen yo ansante,” she begged. Her back was sweaty against the paper-covered blue vinyl table.
He frowned at her. “Speak in English, Martine! You know how. No Creole.”
“Please, let my children be well,” she slowly added in his language.
He smiled at her. “They are healthy. Ansante.”
She grinned back and said, “No Creole.” He laughed, took the wand off, and pulled her flowered blouse down.
“You’ll give birth to the twins soon and then you can take a break for four months.” She needed a rest. Martine was only twenty-two, yet she felt so much older; growing tired just walking around the clinic, slipping into naps. She slowly sat up, and he held her hand to help her off the table. His fingers mixed with hers and together they looked like piano keys.
She looked at Dr. Tad, a tall man with a shiny balding head, a ring of thin brown hair making a letter U around the top and sides of his glasses. He was older than her, but not an old man. Perhaps forty. Behind him on the tan wall hung his medical diploma. “Harvard,” it read. Dr. Tad told her it was a first-class school. He was a good doctor so she knew he must be right about the college.
“I am happy they are well. If they were not, if they had the club feet like two times ago, I would be sent off.” Just the thought of banishment from Maison D’Espoir made her stomach jump. She did not know what she would do if she could never see her friends or Dr. Tad again.
Martine lived in a beautiful pink four-bedroom cottage shared with six other girls. As nurse, she had the privilege of her own bedroom. It had blue walls, like the sky, with rainbows painted on them. Her Maman had once told her that God painted rainbows across the sky to give the poor some beauty and magic to look at, to dream about. When Martine was a child living next to a dump, death and filth all around her, rainbows were the only beauty she ever saw.
Sometimes now, Martine lay on her spring mattress on the cool white cloth sheets, her spongy black dreadlocks splayed on her feather pillow. She would look at her rainbows, while a ceiling fan dried sweat off her glossy black skin, and think how lucky she was to be here. She had three meals a day, electricity, television, and good medical care.
So different from when she lived with Maman and Papa in the shack in La Saline, Port Au Prince, fighting her siblings for food, and Maman always having more and more hungry babies. Maman sold her to Madame LaBrie when Martine was seven years old because she could not afford to feed her anymore.
At Madame LaBrie’s, life consisted of chore after chore and not a minute to rest. But now, so many nice things around her. So much she should be thankful for.
Maison D’Espoir, the gate above the compound read in French in strong gold letters. House of Hope. But French was not her language. She spoke Creole.
And the sign was not true. It should say, Key San Espwa, Creole for House without Hope, because once you stepped across the gates of Maison D’Espoir you became a cursed thing. A monster that spat white babies from your belly even though you were a virgin.
Yes, she had luxuries now, but what she had to do for those luxuries was hard. Very painful both to her body and to her soul. It made her feel like nothing more than a breeding bitch. That is what Mr. Puglisi called her and the other girls: His breeding bitches.
She gritted her teeth.
“Martine?” She looked up.
“Are you all right? Ou Byen?” Dr. Tad asked, his kind eyes meeting hers. He put his light hand on her dark shoulder and she felt love. He pressed her to speak English so she would learn faster, but he spoke to her in Creole when she was upset.
“Mr. Puglisi is a sansmaman.”
“Shush.” He looked around the corner. “He is coming to give a tour to the new girls this afternoon. He could arrive early. Please be careful what you say when he’s nearby.” Dr. Tad scribbled on her chart. His eyes met hers. “I don’t want to hear any more talk about getting sent off. That will never happen. If you ever want to leave, I’ll give you plenty of money to start a new life. I’ve told you that before. You don’t have to go through the birth process over and over again.”
She patted her stomach. “I have the babies for Mr. Puglisi because I do not want to leave you. I just wish we could both run away.”
“Me too, Martine. Me too.”
Anyone who did not follow Mr. Puglisi’s orders was sent off. If you had a sick baby or got a problem with your body and could not have more babies, you were sent off, never to be allowed back in. The money to your family stopped. Your Maman and Papa and brothers and sisters starved and they all blamed you; and they would banish you too.
Everyone believed if you had your own children, they would be born without souls, because evil created the babies you sold to the blan—to the white man.
To be sent off was a slow and for-certain death.
“If I leave,” Dr. Tad said, “a new doctor would be worse.”
She gasped at the thought. In a little over five years, Martine had given birth to four babies. Last year Mr. Puglisi said they would make more money if the girls carried two at once and this was Martine’s first set of twins. So hard.
“A new doctor would make the girls pregnant sooner,” began Dr. Tad, “and would not give them so much time off in between. I have to stay here to watch over everyone, make sure they’re taken care of. I know you care about me too but you should leave here and start a better life. The other girls may not have a chance outside Maison D’Espoir, but you do.”
Every birth nearly killed Martine. Killed her heart. Carrying the babies for so long and then never seeing them again. Worrying their new parents would not love them.
But she feared life outside the gates without Dr. Tad. He had taught her to be a nurse, and he needed her. They had never even kissed but this was the man she loved: A skinny blan from America who chewed his nails and spoke in a funny accent. He had been to doctor school and yet treated her special. Special, hah! Martine from a shantytown in La Saline.
How could she have a better life if he was not in it? If she left Maison D’Espoir?
“I do not want to leave. I just do not want to have more babies to give to Mr. Puglisi.” Tears welled up in her eyes. She loved the twins growing in her and wanted to keep them.
The thought of having them taken away once they were born was too much to bear.
“You know the rules, Martine. To live here, you have to keep producing. I pleaded with Mick to let you stop after Luke . . . ”
She bowed her head and said a silent prayer for her murdered son.
3.
Office of Kurt Malone, Miami, late morning
Before he met with his client, Kurt Malone checked himself out in the small bathroom mirror in his modest office. He was forty-two-years old, clean-shaven, with dirty blond hair and a bump on his nose from an old fistfight. His brown eyes were perpetually bloodshot. Kurt never slept soundly. He couldn’t relax enough to give into the demands of his body. He always looked over his shoulder when he was awake, kept an ear open as he slept. His shabby one-bedroom apartment on Meridian Avenue would be all too easy to break into if someone wanted him badly enough.
A female client was on her way in for his services. He flexed his arm and chest muscles. He was a tall, solid guy who could hold his own in a brawl. He smiled at his reflection. You’ve still got it.
Kurt walked back to his desk and waited for No-last-name Carla. His torn black cloth swivel chair creaked when he sat. It went against his better judgment opening this office in Miami as a private investigator and skip tracer. He knew better than anyone the risk of reverting to hobbies and occupations you had in your old life.
He ran his fingers through his thick hair, cursing himself for taking chances like this. But hell, it had been years and seemingly no one was looking for him. Years of performing odd jobs under the table: Cleaning swimming pools, painting houses, installing drywall. He’d relocated from Rhode Island to Miami and changed his name and appearance, all of which seemed to have done the trick. He was safe from his past. This low profile office on Biscayne blended right in with all the other businesses no one thought twice about. No worries.
Right. That’s why before each new client walked in, what few there were, his hands shook, and he clenched his teeth until his jaw ached.
At one on the dot, Kurt heard footsteps in the hallway. He took a deep breath. It’s just a client. No one knows who you are; don’t worry. The doorknob turned, and in walked a very heavy woman. Oh hell, say it, a fat chick. Three hundred pounds if she was an ounce and dressed in dark-brown stretch pants and a tight brown top that she had no business wearing. Long blond hair, done up in a ponytail, a human Hershey’s Kiss. He struggled not to snicker. She’d come because she felt threatened and was running from someone who tried to kill her. Nothing funny about that.
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